Cannes
If the truth, space and good taste allowed it, the heading of this column would be ‘My Cannes night of lust with Halle Berry’. Before her agent reaches the offices of Sue, Grabbit & Run, the Oscar-winner and I did not, alas, hit it off in bed, and it was mostly her fault. But before I go on, a few words about Cannes and the 59th Film Festival.
During the festival, the population of Cannes, normally around 68,000, doubles. The Cannois, not a bad lot, are quite proud of their festival, because in the ridiculous, celebrity-worshipping world we live in, Cannes is the centre of the world for 11 days every year. Hookers, hustlers, flesh-peddlers, social climbers, celebrity wannabes, agents, producers, PR body-snatchers — you name it, it’s here. Actually, the only thing missing is Sam Spiegel’s yacht in the old harbour of Cannes, festooned with beautiful girls and ugly socialites. Mind you, Sam’s boat was a beauty, a classic gentleman’s yacht which today could be mistaken for a tender to some vulgarian’s superyacht. Never have I seen such ugliness at sea. Except for their owners, that is.
If size does matter, the bigger and more vulgar the boat, the shorter, balder and uglier the owner. With exceptions, however. Last Saturday night I took my guests to the Vanity Fair party at Eden Roc, in Cap d’Antibes. Graydon Carter, the big cheese at VF, has been inviting me for years to his Oscar party in Hollywood, the most sought-after blast in the land of the depraved, and I have never made it there. (I sent my kids once, and he treated them like studio heads.) His Cannes Film Festival party ditto. But this year all systems were go, and I flew in from the Bagel late Friday night. Alas, after an all-nighter, I was pretty much the worse for wear, but got to Eden Roc in time. With me was the mother of my children, Michael Mailer, son of Norman and a very successful film producer, and his brother-in-law Mark Lazard, of Lazard Frères fame, also an independent producer. Michael and Mark were screening their film, Kettle of Fish, the next day.
Graydon had placed us at a very good table, from which vantage point we were able to check up on Halle Berry, Faye Dunaway, Bruce Willis, Valentino, Sir Ian McKellen, and others of their ilk. My eyes were, of course, focused on Halle. I had first heard of her when she sobbed at the 2002 Oscars ceremony, and I have continued to lust after her ever since. She looked smaller than she does on screen, but I was not about to complain.
Then Michael had a very bad idea. He knew her professionally, having almost made a movie with her, so he went up to her dragging me along, opened his arms, and in typical Hollywood fashion gushed her name. ‘Halleeeee…’ Dead silence. Mailer, unperturbed and used to Tinseltown manners, continued. ‘Halle, meet my buddy Taki…’ Even less recognition, but a 180-degree turn and a nice view of her back as she disappeared into the rest of the smiling wallet-lifters milling around. Worse was to follow. Mark Lazard, having witnessed the débâcle, decided to make it up to me by calling Faye Dunaway over. (Mark had produced a film in which la Dunaway had starred.) ‘Hey, Faye, come on over and meet Taki…’ To my horror, the very same thing happened. But then la Faye sort of remembered Mark, came over and was very friendly, except for the fact that la Faye don’t look like Faye once did. Halle yes, Faye never.
The mother of my children had left early, so the three of us battled on trying to meet wannabe celebrities and any sweet young thing that was around. When Liz Hurley pulled up, it was evident that it was the time for B- and C-listers, so we headed for home. I had an idea to plant a sign on my forehead which read, ‘I was here for dinner, unlike you,’ but Michael thought it a bad idea.
When we got to the Garoupe plage, where once upon a magical time the Murphys, Picasso, Hemingway and Fitzgerald frolicked, my tender had gone Awol, the boys’ mobiles were exhausted, so we just sat there thinking what it would be like to spend the night on the beach while my crew slept soundly on board my boat. Then billionaire Ron Perelman arrived with two beautiful blondes in tow, not to mention flunkeys and bodyguards. He looked at us, took pity and asked if we wanted a ride. ‘No, thank you,’ said I, obviously complexed and feeling inferior. ‘Bloody well yes,’ screamed Michael and Mark in unison.
While on board his tender, Perelman asked our names. ‘I know you,’ he said to me, ‘and have read the crap you’ve written about me.’ When he heard Mailer’s name he perked up. ‘This girl here’s in love with you,’ he said, pointing at a particularly attractive lady. Then Michael came up with the dumbest remark of all time. ‘But I’m married and my wife is expecting a child.’ ‘How about an older man?’ I chirped up. ‘I’ll work on it,’ said Ron, proof that all bald billionaires are not bad, and that not all superyacht owners are greedy types.
Comments